


Stay A Little Longer

by Bookofmirth (ABookAndACoffee)



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Inspired by Les revenants, M/M, Other, Post-ACOWAR
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/pseuds/Bookofmirth
Summary: After wars have ravaged Prythian, Feyre is trying to keep the Night Court stable in her role as High Lady, with the help of friends and family. The wars cost them more than anyone had expected, and they are still trying to pick up the pieces. Slowly, friends, lovers, and enemies they had thought long dead begin to return to Prythian with no recollection that they have died.





	1. Prologue

_Prologue_

100 years after the war with Hybern, the Queen of the Black Lands took her chance to seize control.

Everyone knew it was coming. It had been rumored for decades, feared for longer. No one was surprised when she made her move, but they were shocked, nonetheless. That someone dared to sunder what they worked so hard to put right. Though, Feyre was quickly learning, peace was the exception. Routine was never routine for long.

That didn’t make it any easier to join battle once more.

The Courts of Prythian were far more united than when Hybern had attacked. And yet they underestimated the ruthlessness, the intensity of the Queen’s ambitions. She began with the Spring Court, sensing weakness there because it had been once. After all, Tamlin had betrayed his peers before. Why not again, and in favor of an even greater foe?

The Queen was wrong. Yet she and her armies smashed through Tamlin’s forces in the Spring Court, barely stopping long enough for the news to reach the rest of Prythian.

Rhys and Feyre’s son Aleron fought in the second war with them, alongside Marielle, the daughter of Lucien and Elain. They had little other choice than to let their grown children enter the fray. Especially when Rhys and Feyre’s daughter, Adalie, began to exhibit signs of becoming the next High Lady of the Night Court, and at such a tender age. No, better to send those who could fight to do so, and protect the future.

They all lost someone. Some more than others. Graves were dug, funeral dirges sung, bodies burned in heaps when they could no longer spare the time or energy to care for them otherwise.

In the end, they bought their peace at a dear price. The Queen of the Black Lands was beaten back, her death paid for with the slaughter of Prythian’s people, given aid by Aleron’s bravery, Marielle’s wit and cunning, and the newly formed alliances between Spring, Summer, and Autumn Courts that brought them in much closer to the others. Rhys and his friends in Winter, Dawn, and Day made good on the promises they had made to Tamlin before his death.

It has been 12 years since the war ended, and peace still feels like something not quite real. The scent of burned corpses feels etched into the memory of the land, the landscape still scarred from battle, and even in Velaris one doesn’t need search too long to find a ruined building that has not yet been restored.

But now, something stirs. There are whispers that those who were lost may have come back. It begins in small villages, on the outskirts and borders, liminal spaces where one is far more likely to run into creatures who have forgotten their own names in the space of their long lives. Superstition has long reigned there, and the stories went nearly unnoticed. And what’s more, it isn’t only those lost in the war; others who were lost before or after, who met violent ends and natural, are as likely to return as anyone else.

It is easy to dismiss tales like these. The people who spread them are among those who one can hardly believe under normal circumstances. But a husband lost to war coming home to his widow, a son returning to his mother, a warrior returning to her wife, it is too much coincidence.

Feyre sends Aleron to investigate; he is, after all, prone to wanderlust. Let him see what he finds, she thinks, if there are any worries that she should take notice of from deep in the heart of the Night Court. Morrigan has heard other versions, from different corners of the world. These are communities who have no contact with one another, which lends an unfortunate truth to it all.

Meanwhile, Feyre tries to keep the peace in a Night Court used to centuries of harsh rule. It isn’t as easy as she expected, to ask her people to live in harmony. Rhys warned her. She should have listened better, while she still had the chance to ask for his counsel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adalie Archeron is practicing self-defense when a strange man wanders out of the woods.

Adalie Archeron is in the front lawn of her mother’s house, repeating the thrusts and parries that her brother Aleron showed her before he left on his latest mission. Her skirts whip around her legs as the wind buffets against the side of the mountain. It’s cold, but she never seems to catch a chill.  
  
Feyre, Adalie’s mother, lets her practice outdoors, alone. Lets her roam freely, in fact, though she is 15 years old living in a world of ancient monsters who would gladly end her life, for personal or political ends. She has tutors and lessons in self-defense, each day divided neatly depending on subject and weapon, her daemati powers included. But even on days that she is freed from lessons, she finds herself here, wishing she were on a battlefield.   
  
Not just any battlefield, but the one where she lost her father.   
  
She has only a vague recollection of what he was like. She remembers being thrown into the air, laughing, Aleron promising him to protect her. She can remember clutching two large hands as her unsteady legs took their first steps. And a dark shadow that was somehow the source of warmth. The shadow was her father, she knows, and she wishes that she could discern more details from those fuzzy memories.  
  
Part of the memory of Adalie’s father is the memory of her mother’s smile. It is a rare sight, one that she and Aleron take turns trying to pull from Feyre. These days, she’s much better at it than her brother.   
  
There is a strength, a steadfastness in Adalie that Rhys noticed before she was even walking. She seemed born into this world already wise to its ways. It is perhaps the reason she has been singled out as the heir to the Night Court throne. And it is perhaps due to the war that she was born into.   
  
Adalie thrusts, grunts, catching her footing as it slips, her center of gravity off. She pulls back, steadying herself. Tries again.  
  
Adalie has heard the stories a hundred times before from her brother and mother. There are slight variations, depending on which of them tell it. The war had been going for 8 years when Feyre found out she was pregnant. What was normally a source of joy had become a source of terror. A pregnant High Lady, in the middle of a war? They kept it hidden as long as they could.   
  
And they did keep it secret, right until the end. Aleron made noise in the south, attempting to divert attention from his mother’s retreat from battle. Rhysand made his own excuses for why he needed to consolidate power in Velaris. Feyre continued to plan, strategize, and take reports from all over Prythian.   
  
Rhys managed to be there for the birth. It was easy, quick. Adalie was ready for this world.   
  
Her father was around until her third year, when he was vanquished at the end of the war. There, right at the end, the death of her father. Telling the story now, in a time of peace, it seems unjust. But at the time, it was just how the world worked.   
  
It is something that Adalie takes as a matter of fact still. Her mother doesn’t have time to mourn, and so neither does Adalie. Or so she tells herself.   
  
On this lovely winter afternoon, Adalie continues to practice with her long sword, feeling a breeze from behind. It doesn’t normally come from that direction, not from the south. When she turns, she sees a man approach from the woods.   
  
He is dressed all in black, with hair to match. He seems lost, or rather confused. He knows where he is going, but not where he is coming from. Adalie pulls her sword to her side, standing straight.   
  
She waits until he is closer. “Hello. May I ask what you are doing here?”  
  
The man looks confused to see her there. She stiffens, stands straighter under his gaze. There is no reason for anyone to question her right to be there. It has long been known who she is, what she will be.  
  
“I think I’m lost,” the man says. “Is this where Feyre Archeron lives? I am looking for her.”  
  
“If you mean the High Lady of the Night Court, then you are correct. But unless you have an appointment, she is far too busy. You may deal with me instead.” She offers a hand, her sword clasped behind her back. “Your name?”  
  
The man takes her hand, holds it as if it something precious, but says nothing. Now that he is closer, she can see that they share the same color eyes. A piercing violet that sometimes makes her mother sad, when she takes the time to look into them.  
  
Uncomfortable, Adalie snatches her hand away. “May I ask what business you have here?”  
  
The man looks over her, to the house. “I don’t remember.” He glances down at her weapon. “You were practicing?”   
  
She nods, showing him the weapon, her grip an indication of the hours she has spent with it in her hands. “Yes. Every day. My brother is one of the finest warriors in Prythian, and he teaches me. When he has time. He learned from Cassian, and Azriel. And my father.” Her voice falters at the final word.  
  
“And wouldn’t you think that pants might be more comfortable for your current task?”  
  
Adalie shrugs. “I like dresses. I like swords. No one will choose to attack me based on my outfit. The world is not that courteous.” She places her fists on her hips. “Would you like to try me?”  
  
The man in black chuckles and holds his hands up. “No, thank you. I am out of practice.” He pauses. “What is your name? You seem familiar, but I don’t know if I’ve seen you around here.”  
  
“Adalie. Adalie Archeron. And your name?”  
  
The man shakes his head, frowns. He doesn’t answer.   
  
Adalie waits for him to say something, anything, and glances back at her house, remembering that she isn’t truly alone here with this man in black who refuses to tell her his name.   
  
Finally, he speaks. “How old are you?”  
  
Adalie juts her chin out. “I’ll be 16 in a few months.” The space between winter and spring, when change comes and hope is renewed.   
  
“Then I suppose you are grown enough to make your own decisions.”  
  
“Indeed. Though it hardly matters. I’ll be chosen, either way. For the throne, that is.”  
  
The man’s face falls even further, and he struggles to regain a smile.  
  
“Aren’t you afraid, to be out here alone with me? We’ve never met before. You don’t know who I am. Perhaps I have come to hurt you.” The man puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels.   
  
“You can’t hurt me,” Adalie says matter-of-factly, as if it were a question of the sun rising or the stars twinkling overhead that night.   
  
“Really?” The man is amused, and she puts it down to another adult who doesn’t understand the world the way that she does.  
  
“Yes,” Adalie says. “There is more at stake here than you know. And I’m strong. Stronger than I look.” She stands up to her full height, which only reaches his shoulders. If he were to take her into a hug, her face would be buried in his chest. But Adalie isn’t sure why she would have a thought like that.  
  
“I think I would like to see what you are capable of. But not today. I think I need to be somewhere. I thought it was here, but I don’t understand. I was in that field, Cassian was calling my name, and then…” The man drifts off, his forehead wrinkled in thought.  
  
“You know Cassian?” Adalie tries not to sound surprised. Many people know Cassian, after all, renowned warrior that he is. He comes to their house frequently, giving her mother reports, staying for dinner. He can make her laugh, make all of them laugh, better than anyone. Well, almost anyone. Adalie can always count on Morrigan for an inside joke or two.  
  
“Yes.” The man smiles and takes his hands out of his pockets and presses his palms against his thighs. He gazes off into the distance, remembering something that he doesn’t share with Adalie. There is something in the look that is familiar to her, if she could only remember why.   
  
“Are you going to tell me your name? We might be able to give you a room for the night, until you find your bearings.”  
  
“Ah, I seem as if I’ve lost them, then?”  
  
“Yes,” Adalie says, frank. “You show up wandering out of the woods, with no idea of why you are here. I’d say your bearings have been misplaced. But don’t worry. Mother is generally hospitable, even to strangers.”  
  
“Your mother?” What little color was in the man’s face seems to drain. “Feyre?”  
  
“Yes. And please, don’t be so familiar. She won’t like that. You may call her High Lady.”  
  
The man nods. “Will you show me the way, then, young Adalie?”  
  
She extends her hand to be escorted, but realizes the is still holding the longsword that Aleron gave her before he left.  
  
The man in black chuckles. “I can follow your lead. You might need to keep that at the ready, after all.”  
  
Adalie nods. “Then I will take you to the main entrance, where we receive guests. This area is for family, so we’ll need to go around to the front.”  
  
The man in black nods. “Lead the way, please. What shall I call you, might I ask?”  
  
Adalie pauses, considers. “You may call me Lady.” The man smiles. “I am not a High Lady yet, but I am certainly your superior,” she explains.  
  
“Ah, of course. It is wise of you. May I ask, do you look forward to the title?”  
  
“Not at all,” she responds, more than a little regret in her voice. “I don’t want my mother to pass. But more than that, it’s a great responsibility. I don’t know how I can hope to accomplish what my mother and father have.”  
  
“And even wiser still,” the man responds. He has that far away, thoughtful look again. Adalie wants to pry into his thoughts, but they seem too sad, too full of regret.  
  
“Adalie!” Feyre’s voice is coming from the entrance to the house. The lawn is large enough so that she can’t yet see them.  
  
“I’m here, mother!” she responds. She looks to the man in black. “I think you might want to leave. If my mother sees you, she’ll be angry.”  
  
“Why? I thought you could take care of yourself?”  
  
“Unnecessary risk,” Adalie says, obviously parroting a phrase that has been repeated often. “I meant to bring you in the front. She won’t like that I’ve been speaking to someone without her knowing them.”  
  
She looks up at the man, trying to place him one last time before leaving his side.   
  
Feyre is strolling across the lawn when she notices that her daughter is speaking to a strange man. She pauses, but for a fraction of a second.   
  
Adalie sees her mother’s hesitation, and looks to the man. His eyes are locked on Feyre, though, no longer caring who is at his side.   
  
Feyre winnows to Adalie’s side, gripping her shoulders before she knows her mother has done it. “Go inside,” she hisses. “Now.”  
  
Adalie wrenches free from her mother’s grip and stumbles forward. It’s not something she is used to doing in front of strangers, to take a false step like that, but she makes her way to the house without another question.  
  
“And Adalie?” Feyre says, “Send for your brother. Now. Tell him we may have answers here, for what he seeks out.” She turns back to the man in black, leaving Adalie to her task.  
  
She hasn’t asked for an introduction, any explanation of who the man is or why is there. Adalie resists the temptation to turn and watch them, instead choosing to run to the house, her skirts once again flapping around her legs.   
  
Before she reaches the house, Adalie pauses for just a moment behind a hedge, trying to hear what business this stranger could have with her mother. She is in a hurry, though, and only hears one phrase before she turns to send for Aleron.  
  
“Hello, Feyre darling.”


	3. Azriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another figure from the past makes their presence known in Velaris.

Morrigan wakes because of a sound. Someone is in her kitchen, making breakfast. She can hear the sizzle of bacon, the ting of silverware against china, steam rising from a pan as a liquid is poured onto its hot surface. They are domestic sounds, ones she is used to. But she isn’t used to them quite this early.

And what’s more, Marielle is still in bed next to her.

“Mari?” Mor hasn’t opened her eyes yet, but their limbs are entwined. She buries her head in her pillow once before accepting consciousness. “Mari, who’s here? Did you let one of your friends stay the night?”

Marielle stirs, making a sound between a moan and a groan as she turns to face Mor. Her bright auburn hair is stuck to her cheek and her eyes haven’t yet regained their usual clever alertness.

“Is it Cassian? Did he tell you he was coming over?” Mor pushes strands of hair from Marielle’s face.

Marielle leans forward, giving Mor a kiss on the cheek. “No. But that doesn’t mean I’ll hate him for making us breakfast.” She stretches her arms, a content _hmmm_ to accompany her cat-like movements.

Mor frowns. It’s not as if Cassian hasn’t done this before, come over, made himself at home. But usually it comes with a warning, some acknowledgment of boundaries. She sighs.

Marielle shifts her head, looking at Mor fully. There isn’t much that gets past either of them, especially when it comes to one another. They fell together during the war, despite Mor’s hesitation. It was, after all, during another war when she had lost Andromache. Of course she would be afraid of finding another warrior to whom she would give and lose her heart.

Luckily, Marielle was persistent. And tough as hell.

The idea that someone might be in their house to attack them - but make breakfast beforehand - is absurd. Even humans still whisper about the role that Marielle played in ending the war. Together, she, Nesta, and Amren had combined knowledge of the Cauldron, magic, and the earth to craft a weapon that even the Queen of the Black Lands couldn’t overcome.

And so the notion that their home might be invaded by any real threat is laughable.

Indeed, the biggest threat to their current peace is knowing what Mor must do after leaving the house.

Marielle taps her fingers down Mor’s bare arm, tracing circles that cause her to shudder. “What’s wrong, love? Do you want me to cancel today? Just tell everyone you’ve come down with something horrible that means I need to take care of you in bed?” She slides her hand beneath the sheets, running her hand over Mor’s breast, down to grip her hip and pull her closer.

Mor groans, wishing she could ignore the sounds coming from the kitchen. If it were only the two of them, none of the other problems existing in the world. She earned that, she thinks, she has earned the right to be alone with the woman she loves, with not a concern in the world.

“Yes, please.” But Marielle pulls her hand away, causing Mor to whine.

“Mor? Don’t you need to go see Feyre today?” She rests her palm on Mor’s shoulder, a warm comfort but not the one she was looking for.

“Yes. Something about the people returning.” Mor doesn’t add _from the dead_. It is too morbid, too strange to even put into words. The moment the rumors reached Velaris, Mor remembered the dead she counted as her own. After all, it’s difficult not to make a tally of who might return when the possibility is dangled before you. Or when the possibility threatens, in some cases.

“Aleron should have sent a report by now,” Mor says. There is little comfort in either sort of response. Either fae and humans are returning to the world, or they aren’t. She will see those she lost again, but they might come with those she has vanquished. Or her cousin is still gone forever. It is a horrible reality, either way.

Mor can’t help but think that she might have been happier if the idea had never come up. There is something unsettling about the past not staying well enough in its place.

Marielle sits up in bed, her back bare and her front covered by a sheet. Mor wants to wrap her fist around that beautiful mess of red hair, pull her back down and never leave the bed again. But she also very much needs to know why Cassian decided to come over without notice.

Instead of pulling Marielle back down, Mor lets her fingertips drift across her back, tracing the scars she received from training, and then during the war. Elain and Lucien hadn’t wanted to send their daughter, but then who would? No one would make the choice to risk losing a child to that. But Marielle came out of it, scarred but alive. Many others hadn’t come out out all.

Before she allows the thoughts of who they lost to drag her down into that dark abyss, Mor sits up in bed. The scent of the food has made its way to their bedroom, and her stomach growls. Marielle laughs and Mor glances back at her, resting her head on her shoulder. “Don’t tell me you aren’t hungry. Cassian is such a good cook, we’d better go out and say hi. And take advantage.”

Marielle kisses the top of her head. “Of course. I smell pancakes. And I wonder if he heard something from Aleron.”

“Perhaps.” Mor stands and grabs her robe, wrapping it around her naked body while Marielle watches. “Maybe that’s why he’s here.”

“I’ll meet you out there,” Marielle says. Mor raises an eyebrow. “I need to head out right away,” she explains, “so I’m getting dressed.”

“Don’t take too long or I’ll eat everything,” Mor says as she leaves their room.

Mor makes her way to the kitchen, the smell of food stronger now that her bedroom door isn’t in the way. She turns the corner of the hallway, and sees an Illyrian at her stove. His back is to her, and she wonders why Cassian’s hair is a bit tidier than usual. Especially this time of day. He seems to have gotten a haircut as well.

“Morning,” she says. She walks to the sink to get a glass of water. “What are you doing here? Mari said you didn’t let her know you were coming over.” Mor stands behind him, resting her chin on his shoulder and avoiding the membranes of his wings.

“Mor?” He turns, and Mor moves back once, then again, stumbling more than taking proper, steady steps.

“I’m making you breakfast,” Azriel says, indicating the stovetop. “We always do this. Right?”

The back of Mor’s legs hit the bench on one side of her dining table and she falls onto it with a thud. Yes, they do this all the time. Or they did, before he disappeared.

“Az?” She isn’t sure if the blood has rushed to her face or has been leeched from it, only that she is simultaneously chilled and anxiously heated.

Marielle is coming around the same corner Mor just ventured down, buttoning her shirt. Mor looks to her in desperation, needing confirmation that one of her dearest friends, who she hasn’t seen in nearly twenty years, is standing in her kitchen, making her breakfast. Mari’s steps slow, and Mor looks back to Azriel.

“What? What are you doing here?” Mor asks him.

He gestures to the stove. “Making breakfast.” He looks to Marielle. “Hi, Mari. Did you stay the night?” He turns back to the pancakes and flips one.

“Yes,” Mari says. “And hi. Hello, Azriel.” Behind his back, Mor and Mari try to whisper frantically to each other, pantomiming wildly.

“What’s going on, ladies? You know I can hear you moving.” Az turns back around and cocks his head. They freeze in place like some ridiculous tableau before their arms drop to their sides.

“Az, why are you here?” Mor asks.

He shrugs. “I thought it would be nice. Normal. I’m having a hard time remembering what normal is. I think… I think I’ve forgotten some things.”

“But how? How did you get here, Az?” So it is true. The rumors have become reality right here in her kitchen, and Mor isn’t sure if she should be overjoyed or terrified. She thinks of the other potential revenants, and shuts her eyes tightly for just a moment.

It’s more than the possibility that people like the King of Hybern might come back. It’s the reason behind the action; for why would anyone raise the dead? And if it is a natural phenomenon, then surely something must be wrong in the world, some catastrophe that none of them have been able to predict.

Az frowns, but so slightly that Mor isn’t sure Marielle could catch it. “I don’t remember. I woke up and I was in a dark place. So I flew. I flew until I recognized the mountains I was flying over. Then I came here.”

Mor stands, approaching him cautiously. “Do you remember what happened before that? Before you woke up?”

“Yes. I was on my way… somewhere.” He glances at Marielle. Ever the spy, ever loyal to Rhys. He would have no way of knowing how much Mari did for Prythian during the war, not if he was gone. Wherever he was.

“A mission?”

“Yes. Because of the rumors that the Queen of the Dark Lands is going to attack, I needed to see for myself. I was on my way to do some reconnaissance for Rhys and Feyre. Have you heard any news of her? The Queen?”

The breath leaves Mor’s lungs. Twenty years ago. That is the last time they heard from him. And it seems that Az doesn’t remember anything since he left.

“Go get Cassian,” Mor says to Marielle. She gives a nod that Mor doesn’t see, but feels.

Before Marielle can leave the house, they hear someone knock on the front door, then open it without waiting for it to be answered. A low, masculine voice sends relief shuddering through Mor’s spine.

Cassian enters the kitchen, Marielle just behind him. When he sees Azriel, he stops in his tracks. It’s not as if he doesn’t recognize his brother. It’s not as if he isn’t glad. But in this world of magic and fae, it’s difficult to believe that one’s wishes might come true, without some trickery or cost involved.

“Cassian.” Az takes a step forward but Cassian doesn’t match him, keeping his distance. “Everything is so peaceful.”

The statement sounds like a question. The last thing Az remembers is the last time any of them saw him, at the beginning of the war. When he stopped sending reports from the Continent, when so much time passed that they had to move on without him, they had all mourned.

“Azriel.” After a slight hesitation, Cassian steps forward, once, twice, until he has covered the length of the kitchen and takes Azriel in his arms, wrapping him in a hug that would crush a smaller fae.

Cassian looks over Az’s shoulder from Marielle to Mor, and he exchanges a look with Mor. She will fill him in later.

“I’ve had news, from Feyre,” he says, backing away from Az and patting his shoulder. Apparently he has been preparing for this possibility, and seems much less surprised than Mor.

“Not Aleron?” Marielle asks.

“No, though he is on his way now. Mor, Rhys is back.” So there it is, the source of Cassian’s forced composure. It’s difficult to be surprised about one brother coming back when you’ve already regained another.

“Back?” Az asks. “Where was he? Why would he leave at a time like this?”

Marielle rushes to Mor’s side, supporting her with an arm around her shoulder.

“We need to go to Feyre.” Mor looks up to Az. “And you, you need to come with us. You can’t allow yourself to be seen, please, Az. I’ll explain everything to you later. I just… I think we all need some time.”

“Of course. Should we eat breakfast first?”

Mor laughs, so bitterly that Az looks offended. But how could this situation be anything other than absurd? First Azriel, then Rhys. Who would be next? Ianthe? Keir? She can only wish that her own personal demons will stay in the past where they belonged, but the world is not that kind. Mor has learned nothing in her long life if she doesn’t understand that.

“I’m sorry Az, but no. We need to go see Feyre, and now. Aleron is going to meet us, and we can check on Adalie while we are there.”

“Who is Adalie?”

“Az, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Mor shakes her head and Marielle leans her forehead against her shoulder. “You’ve been gone quite a long time. Much longer than you realize, it seems.”

Mor looks over to Cassian, waiting for him to follow them out of her house. He has been quiet, and unusually so, given the circumstances.

“Cassian?”

He looks up at Mor, hope and fear in his eyes.

“Nesta.” Cassian spins on his heels and leaves, and it isn’t until they hear the sound of his wings beating against the air that Marielle speaks.

“Where is he going?”

Mor answers. “To see if Nesta has returned.”


	4. Nesta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elain and Cassian search for Nesta in the human lands.

Elain is certain that she knows where Nesta would go. She is less sure that she wants to find her alone.

She leaves early one morning, Lucien still asleep in the pre-dawn hours. Their home in the Spring Court is one that Feyre can hardly bare to visit, so they travel often. It will take her a few hours to reach her destination, but she isn’t heading for Nesta. Not yet. First, she must find her company.

Elain doesn’t tell Lucien where she is going, waiting until he wakes and calls for her through the bond.

By the time she makes it to Mor and Marielle’s home in Velaris, Cassian has come to the same conclusion that she reached days ago. Nesta might be back, and she will need her family.

Elain waits outside the city to see Cassian’s silhouette appear in the skies, and calls to him.

There are days when the past, present, and future blur, lose their shape, the boundaries between them difficult to distinguish. But Elain knows that in all of them, Nesta is gone.

Or, she was.

From the moment Elain heard the whisperings, she knew they were true. Feyre needed a bit more evidence than her sister’s word, something to tell her whether her mate might return, and Elain would never begrudge her that need. After all, she can only imagine how much that false hope would sting, if it weren’t true. And it’s not as if Elain’s power has always been reliable, but they can hardly ask it to be. That’s the way of the world, the unpredictability, the constant change.

In the years since Nesta died - so close to the end, sacrificing herself for the rest of them - Elain has played the scene in her mind again and again, the words they exchanged before Nesta left. There was no such thing as telling Nesta what she could or should do. Her work with Marielle and Amren had proven invaluable to the cause. The war had stretched on for 19 long years. Surely, after so much toil, by some luck of fate she would be spared.

They hadn’t intended for their work to take Nesta’s life.

Elain goes to see Cassian when she can. He, she thinks, lost more than any of them. His brothers, his mate and wife. He wasn’t even left with a child before Nesta passed, though they had tried.

There is something profound in watching Cassian throw himself into work, helping Feyre any way he can. He dotes on Adalie as if she were his own, gives Aleron advice that Rhysand is no longer around to provide. Their training sessions became much more poignant and were nearly canceled when it became just the two of them, Cassian and Aleron waiting to hear news of Azriel, and then watching Rhys fall in battle.

Cassian and Aleron could barely stand to be in the same room, after that. All Cassian could do was try to make up for Aleron’s loss, while coping with his own. Aleron was not of a mind to be coddled, and went so far as to push away the man who had become his best friend.

It has been better, in the years since. Everyone has realized that they way they were living, grief-stricken, isolated, it was no way to live. It wasn’t why they had bothered fighting that war, to succeed only to push one another away.

Elain is not sure what state she will find Nesta in, how much she will remember. All that Elain can count on are Nesta’s deeply-held values and a persistent distaste for High Fae, which tells her enough to know where to find her, where to direct Cassian to go.

Cassian banks to the left, lowering himself to the ground until he is striding towards Elain. “Where is she?”

“She is in the human lands.”

Cassian’s stride slows. “Why?”

“I think you know.” Elain extends her hand. “I came to help you find her and bring her home.”

“And you’re sure she’s there?” Cassian’s voice breaks. “Is Nesta back?”

Elain’s eyes soften. “Yes. But I don’t know what state we will find her in. How much she will know, or remember.”

Cassian takes Elain into his arms. “Near your former home, then?”

“Yes. And Cassian?”

He adjusts her in his arms so that they are both comfortable.

“Never mind.” Elain looks to the skies, watches the clouds grow closer as Cassian launches into the air.

There are possibilities that need not be spoken, not yet. Not until they see Nesta, and Rhys.

Elain has come to accept the unpredictability of her powers. She wasn’t able to help Amren, Marielle, and Nesta when it came time to do what needed to be done. Her strength, like Mor’s, lies elsewhere.

And now that Nesta has returned, Elain has a feeling of lack so deep that she fears she will never be able to fix what has been torn apart.

This is her power; to sew together the relationships that have been severed, to quietly understand the truths that others are afraid to face, to guide them to act for their own happiness.

It’s a funny thing, she realized years ago, how hard her friends and family, and indeed everyone, is so quick to deny what makes them happy. Even if the potential stares them in the face. She thinks back to her meeting with Lucien, the tie from her rib to his and the suspicion that if she only followed where it led, she would know that this one thing in her life was meant solely for her. Yet she had even resisted that, not understanding the transience of what she thought was pain. No, since then, Elain has learned what pain is.

Knowing that Cassian also felt that completeness and then lost it, Elain wonders how he wakes every morning. How he has been able to breathe these past 12 years. And Feyre, living without Rhys. It’s enough to bring a sob to Elain’s throat. She has fallen asleep many times clutching Lucien’s chest, begging him to talk her to sleep so that she knows he hasn’t slipped away and out of her life.

Other days, the only option Elain has is to distract herself. 

“Cassian, do you know what Marielle told me the other day?”

“No, what?” He doesn’t look at her. One could blame it on him trying to guide them to the human lands, but Elain knows that her face too closely resembles Nesta’s, that the real reason he hasn’t been able to visit since the war is because he sees too much of his lost mate in her.

“She said that she and Mor are going to find a way to get Aleron to stop wandering around Prythian, set him up with some woman they met.”

Cassian snorts softly.

“What,” Elain says, “you don’t think it’s a good idea? Feyre would rather have him around more. She just indulges his desire to leave sometimes, by sending him away.”

“It’s not that,” Cassian answers. “Getting Aleron to stay in one place for too long is against his nature. Besides,” he adds, “he met someone already.”

Elain starts, pulls away slightly to look Cassian in the face. “What? Who?”

“I don’t know,” Cassian admits. “Someone he met while in the Winter Court. He wouldn’t tell me their name."

“Oh. Well, I suppose Mari and Mor will have to think of something else.”

“Why does it matter?” Cassian asks.

“Why does what matter?”

“That Aleron stay in one place. What if that place is far from the Night Court?”

Elain bites her lip. She doesn’t want her nephew to settle down in another Court, but she can’t help noticing how isolated he is, how he slips away after dinner before everyone else, alone. 

“I just want everyone to be happy.”

“Well, I’m not sure that’s possible,” Cassian says.

Elain frowns.

“I mean of course it’s possible. But it always changes. We lose people we love, they leave us. Shit happens, Elain.”

Elain lets them sit in silence for a few minutes. Cassian’s wings beat, air rushes around them, the scenery and weather change as they make their way through one Court into another.

“We’ll find her, Cassian. I promise. And we don’t know what she has been through, what she’ll remember. But she’s back.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Elain grips Cassian’s neck tighter until her lips are nearly against his ear. “Because I know everything.” She pulls away and grins at him, a smile he reluctantly returns.

After all, it’s not as if Cassian has much else to cling to besides this small hope that his brothers and mate have returned. Even if it does come with possibility that someone like Amarantha will also show their face in Prythian again.

Elain hasn’t searched her out, or the Queen of the Black Lands, or any other of the number of fae who has threatened her happiness in the past. One day, she knows she will need to discover who else has returned, besides those she has wished for. If she doesn’t they may pay a higher price than they already have.

“Cassian, how was Azriel?” Elain hasn’t had a chance to see Rhys, to see what changes may have been wrought in him. It might have been preparation for what - who - they are about to encounter, but perhaps Cassian noticed something that will give her a clue.

“He acted like it was a normal day. He was making Mor breakfast.”

Elain stifles a laugh. “I’m sure she appreciated that. Until she had to break the news to him that he’s been gone over thirty years.”

It was supposed to have been a joke. But the uncertainty of how her family will react to the returned, how those who return may have changed, is enough to sober her quickly.

“Azriel doesn’t know who Adalie is. He didn’t know that Mor and Mari are married. It’s as if he has been asleep this whole time, unaware of what happened to him. Then again, we don’t even know that. Mor was taking him to see Feyre.”

“Oh. I see.” Elain might have guessed as much. The veil between worlds is not meant to be pierced in reverse. Any understanding or knowledge they may have gained when they died was surely lost when they made the journey back. And the circumstances surrounding Azriel’s disappearance might not be an indication of what Nesta would know, or Rhys.

Elain and Cassian arrive in the human lands, near their former home, sooner than Elain anticipated. A figure in a threadbare purple dress is weaving in and out of the trees at the edge of the property, prowling for something.

Nesta.

Cassian lands with Elain a few hundred feet away, setting her down gently and giving Nesta time to notice that they are there before they get too close.

Nesta is taking in every detail of the landscape that surrounds her, save the two people who have come to find her. Indeed, she seems more concerned with the status of the flora and fauna than situating herself in the wider world.

Elain steps forward first, tentative footfalls that are unsure if they should be noticed or not. Cassian walks behind her, letting her set the pace.

They grow closer, and closer, until Elain and Cassian let twigs snap, leaves crunch, grasses bend beneath their feet in an effort to draw Nesta’s attention.

None of it works until they are nearly upon her, almost close enough to reach out and touch her.

Nesta looks the same as the day she left. She told Elain her plan, they made hushed promises about what to do depending on the outcome, where they would retreat to, how they would communicate, what they may need to continue the fight if this weapon failed.

They didn’t make plans for what to do if Nesta never came back.

“Nesta?” Elain’s voice is small, nearly human.

Nesta turns, looks at Elain, then Cassian, then back again.

“Elain, I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I think I was looking for something, but I can’t remember what it was.”

“What were you doing before you arrived here?”

Nesta looks around, frowns. “That’s Father’s home. But it’s like I woke up here.”

“It’s alright, Nesta. We’ll figure out what happened.” Elain steps closer, until she can extend her arm and brush against the fabric of Nesta’s dress.

“Alright.” Nesta’s eyes rest on the pointed tips of Elain’s ears. “What have they done to you?” She steps forward, clasps Elain’s hands in her own.

“What do you mean, Nesta?”

Nesta brushes Elain’s hair behind her ear. “You’re fae.”

Elain nods. “Yes. And so are you.” She reaches up and repeats the motion on Nesta.

“Cassian?” Nesta hasn’t let go of Elain, and looks to him. He takes one step, then another, until he is standing next to Elain.

“Nesta.” Her name comes out strangled, as if it has been resting there in his throat, waiting to be said again, given to the proper person. Elain is embarrassed to be there now, wishes she had let them have this moment alone. The nature of the absence Cassian must have felt is far different than her own. Far more intimate.

Elain sees Cassian’s hands flex, and she wonders why he doesn’t reach for Nesta.

“Do you not remember what happened after we left here, with Feyre? When we went to live in the Night Court? And what the King of Hybern did to us?” Elain asks.

Nesta shrugs. “I thought that maybe, if I had never really died, then maybe I had never been Made. But it’s all true, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cassian says. Nothing but the blunt truth between them.

Nesta pulls herself away from Elain, turning towards Cassian. She cocks her head. She understands. “Cassian. Where have you been, my love?” Nesta reaches out to him, places a hand on his shoulder to reassure herself he is real. Her hand travels up, cups his cheek in her palm.

Elain would leave them alone if she could. She thinks to look at the space between them where the bond should be, but it feels like an intrusion. She doesn’t know if it will recreate itself or if it needs to be accepted again. Perhaps Feyre can tell her. Elain is suddenly breathless, the full impact of what they will walk into at the Night Court finally hitting her. They will be complete, in a way they haven’t been for thirty years.

“Who else?” Nesta asks.

“Rhys, and Azriel,” Elain answers. Nesta is shrewd enough to realize that she isn’t the only one, that the world would not have singled her out to bring back from death. “They are in the Night Court. Everyone is meeting there, to try to figure out what is going on.”

“Rhys passed away?”

“Yes,” Cassian says.

Nesta’s thumb traces his cheekbone, searching for the pain that the loss of those two must have done, and in combination with her own.

“Nesta.” Cassian extends his hand out to her, places it on her waist. “Come with us. Stay with me, please. Just for a while.”

Nesta nods, steps forward, and lets herself be led away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a small timeline for this fic since it's... a bit complex. If there are errors in my math, I dunno what to say. Just go with it.  
> Acowar = year 1  
> Aleron born year 46  
> Marielle born year 70  
> War with the Queen of the Black Lands = year 100-120  
> Azriel disappears year 100  
> Tamlin dies year 101  
> Adalie born year 117  
> Nesta and Rhysand die in year 120  
> Beginning of this fanfic timeline = year 133


End file.
